It Wasn't Written For You
by PrInCeSsFBi
Summary: Inspired by the works of kjack89. Everything was spinning and Mike had never felt further away from Enjolras until now. His home is like a shadow now. Calling Grantaire, he struggles to find study ground after the Not-Caza hit men tortured him for information.


**Disclaimer: I do not own anything **

**This piece was inspired by kjack89 and everyone should go read those pieces as well! They are amazing! **

The thing about Mike was when he's sleeping, once he's up... _he's up_. He'd never been a huge coffee drinker, caffeine usually made his hands shake, and he was already such a light sleeper that even the faintest of sounds could jostle him awake. He was stirring at the sound of the metallic _click _of the speakers of his alarm before the music was even blaring through the room.

He snatched the small black machine off his nightstand, his iPod playing a soothing Indie song he'd picked up from one of those free cards at Starbucks, and turned it off before it could reach past the first verse. His other arm, though, was trapped under strong shoulders, his skin sticking with sweat to his boyfriend's back from their shared overheated bodies.

Mike's hand felt numb under R's weight and he curled his fingers to his palm to bring some of the feeling back in them. From the scowl on Grantaire's face he could tell that he had woken up as well and Mike gently placed his lips on the tip of his crooked nose.

"Morning," Mike said softly. Mike pulled at his arm to free it from under the broad shoulders but Grantaire groaned and promptly rolled on top of Mike, wrapping his body around the FBI agent.

"No," he mumbled into Mike's neck. "My boyfriend. Government needs to find it's own."

Mike laughed, the sound deep and rough from sleep as he wiped at wild black curls that tickled his nose. The warmth of Grantaire curled around him was tempting as it always was but he was inching to move, inching to get his run in before he went back to work. He pushed the sniper off him and R flopped dramatically back into a heap beside him. Grantaire whined into his pillow but didn't move other than to let Mike near enough for a morning peck. And then another and another. Using the distraction he encircled his arms around Mike and crawled back on top of him, pinning him to the mattress and smothering him with kisses. Mike's lips curled upward into a smile as Grantaire pressed a tender kiss to the corner of his mouth before slowly working his way along his jaw.

"I have to go." Mike chuckled pushing at R's chest. Grantaire lifted himself with his elbow with a pout. Mike leaned forward and quickly kissed it away. R didn't move and gazed lovingly down at the FBI agent in his arms. A tender hand ran through his short hair, long callused fingers pressing into his scalp, and trailing down to cradle Mike's neck. Grantaire kissed him again, this one longer and deeper than the playful pecks moments before, and he flushed a loving red on his cheeks as he held Mike like he meant the world. Their lips breaking apart was painfully slow and he rested his forehead on Mike's as both tried to ease some of the breathlessness. Grantaire leaned back as he moved his hand to Mike's chin, rubbing his nose against Mike's and smiling at the laugh it brought from his boyfriend's lips.

"I wish you would let me take care of you," he said in a near intimate whisper.

"What?" Mike frowned slightly, confusion making his face crease.

"Let me take care of you," Grantaire said again this time sadder and more like he was mourning Mike more than anything. Deft fingers caressed his throat, soothing hot sore skin with a simple touch. Mike hissed at the pain and brought a hand to his neck. "Let me take care of these for you."

Mike's frown grew deeper and he shoved Grantaire's chest lightly to sit up. Peering into the mirror by their dresser, Mike crawled to the end of the bed and tilted his head back. Deep purple bruises lined the base of his throat and a red angry semblance of a line encircled his neck like something had been wrapped around it. Gapping at his reflection and the angry swelling that was starting to grow, Mike turned back around to R with a slight cry, feeling the searing pain that hadn't been there before.

Two men were holding down Grantaire, a plastic bag wrapped tight around his head, as he thrashed beneath their hold. The sniper was gasping for air, making horrible sounds that screamed for oxygen and begged for release.

Mike launched himself towards Grantaire but something pulled him back and threw him on the bed. Rope snaked around his wrists and it was too hot. Everything was too hot and he needed air! Just a breath of air! And…

Mike shot up with a gasp, one of the horrible mismatched pillows falling off the couch with a thud. Cold sweat trailed down his spine like a chilled finger making his t-shit stick to the small of his back. He wasn't in his bed. Grantaire wasn't beside him. His wide eyes searched around for anything familiar. The stack of clothes piled in the corner that smelled of sweat and caffeine. Grantaire's bag that had a set of spare clothes, a book, two water bottles, and a grenade that he kept by the dresser in case he got called out unexpectedly in the middle of the night. Mike's growing collection of ceramic mugs that were easier to drink juice out of than boring old glasses. Nothing. Nothing was familiar. Panic gripped his chest, making his lungs feel tight and he couldn't breathe again.

"Nightmare?" A voice asked. Mike's gaze swung around the room until he landed on the reclined figure in the shadows. Bates was leaning against the stone pillar, a bowl of cereal in his hands. He lifted a brow at Mike's frantic gaze and took a bight of his cheerios with a forced air of casualness, though his unsettled frown deepened.

"Bates," Mike said. Graceland. He was back at Graceland. On the couch in the living at Graceland. And Grantaire was somewhere in Europe, working on a case, _alive_. Mike's disappointment was thick and obvious and any sort of concern from Bates had disappeared as he rolled his eyes, shrugging back into the hesitant yet cautious attitude he had thrown on like a bulletproof vest whenever he was around Mike. Mike winced and bit down an apology before it could pass his lips. "What are you doing up?"

Bates looked down, his chest bare and his legs stark against his blue boxers, before lifting an incredulous expression back up at Mike that made the FBI agent feeling like an idiot.

_He's eating cereal, you dumbass_.

And God he hated this. He hated when he was at a loss of words, his tongue tripping over itself and bubbling an old frustration that made his face hot. Snatching his phone from the coffee table he mumbled an excuse and ran out of the living room with the small remaining amount of dignity he had left before Bates could say anything.

The cold humid ocean air smacked him in the face but it wasn't enough. He felt like he was floating, dangling dangerously close to irrational thoughts that were screaming in his head. The sand between his feet grounded him but he still felt like he was drifting away. The hard crystalized grains of sand felt unstable under the arches of his feet and it was just all too much that his hand started to shake. Mike practically ran for the shelter of the fire pit. He clutched his phone like a lifeline and dropped into a heap in the stone circle before his legs collapsed under him.

His hands were running on autopilot as he pressed the appropriate speed dial and held the phone to his ear.

"Hey there, beautiful," Grantaire said after picking up on the second ring. Mike hadn't realized how much he had needed to hear the other man's voice until after he had heard him and as if the taunt strings holding him up were cut, he slumped forward onto his knees, his hair hanging over his face.

"Hey," he said in a shaky voice, a small smile tugging at his lips. Mike could practically feel him tense as if Grantaire was beside him instead of miles away.

"What's wrong?" Grantaire's frowning, Mike can hear it in his voice, and it was like the floodgates erupted. Every thought, every inkling or gut feeling came rushing at him at once and it was a race to form coherency so that he could explode. Parts of Enjolras barely lingered in Mike's subconscious, sporadic moments when he would just _be _Enjolras for a second. But other parts weighed heavier on Mike, most significantly being the need to speak. Where Enjolras had needed to get his voice heard, to flow speeches together like a rippling pool of chaos, Mike needed the same, to let all the emotions and passions out. Enjolras had wanted to help the people and Mike was more selfish than that. He just wanted everything out. And he knew Grantaire would listen. Sometimes, Mike would just _rant _for hours. He had spent years bottling up everything -_Yes sir. No sir.-_ until he had found Grantaire who would listen until Mike would go too far, his thoughts becoming irrational and driven by resentment, and he had dried himself out of anything but raw emotion.

Now, when he was at a house he once knew and felt like a complete stranger, the words weighed heavy on his tongue as he held them in. Like with Bates, when he had stumbled on every word, he felt the familiar panic set it and the voice inside his head tauntingly telling him that _he couldn't do it _rang throughout his skull.

"Enjolras?" Mike heard Grantaire say, his voice strained by some emotion that Mike couldn't place.

"Sorry." Mike said leaning against the stone, falling back down to Earth.

"It's been a while since I've had to call you Enjolras to get you out of your head." Grantaire said thoughtfully. "What's wrong?"

He repeated the question with a little more insistence. Anyone else, Mike would have shut out and let disgruntled pride keep him from opening up. Before Grantaire, Mike had dealt with his problems on his own. But Grantaire knew he needed the push, needed the bodily shove out of his own head, releasing the words he had spent so long holding in.

"They're different," Mike said. "They're all different. Briggs and Charlie are sleeping together. Johnny's basically given up. Jakes _hugged _me. I mean there's this new guy that-"

"Wait," Grantaire interrupted him, confused. "Where are you? Because I'm pretty sure I left you back in D.C. two days ago."

"I came back to Graceland. Briggs called me. Caza put out a hit on me. Well- no… Not Caza." Mike pinched the bridge of his nose, grimacing at the sting of his tender throat. "We were trying to take down some of the big hitters by setting up a trap but the guys that kidnapped me weren't Caza. And they-"

"When they _what_?" A loud gunshot echoed through the speaker of his phone and Mike felt his heart drop to his stomach. Before he could panic though he heard Grantaire rustling on the other end of the line, his sniper rifled clicking as he disassembled it.

"Would you care to run that part by me again?" He asked with the same irritated tone as if he hadn't just shot anyone.

Mike narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Did you just kill someone?"

"Did you just casually try to tell me that you were dumb enough and pigheaded enough to get yourself kidnapped without me noticing?" Grantaire countered back, his tone matching Mike's.

"Sorry?" Mike tried with a pathetic smile as he heard Grantaire actually _huff _on the other side of the line.

"You need to at least tell me that you shouldn't be in the hospital right now before you continue," R said sharply before he softened. "Are you ok?"

"I'm fine," Mike, said a little too forceful. His throat clenched in pain as the burn of the bruises made his muscles ache. "Just a little shaken. Couple of bruises."

"Where?" Grantaire pressed.

Mike glanced down at his wrists, the rope burns and the bruising a stark contrast to his pale skin. "Wrists and throat. Nothing too major."

Mike heard R muttering under his breath, something that was definitely a curse, and a long sigh that whistled past his teeth. "Did you give them hell at least?"

"Eh…I head-butted one." R snorted out a laugh

"That's something."

The pride in Grantaire's voice took Mike's breath away and wasn't that just pathetic! Before Graceland, before Enjolras and Grantaire, Mike used to be so sure of himself and what he was doing. He was Mike Warren, young kid from Virginia with a father who barely acknowledged him, a mother who lived in her own little world, and a grandfather he idolized. He was groomed for a life of rightness and justice and anything _good. _But then he'd been shipped to the west coast, met Grantaire, remembered Enjolras, and everything changed. A life Mike had been so sure about was upturned into a pile a shit and one of the only things he was certain about was Grantaire. It wasn't approval he needed but after a little over seventy-two hours of being looked at like he was enemy, hearing Grantaire's praise, was enough to salvage what was left of his self-esteem.

"Anyway," Mike said shoving some of his hair out of his face and casting a glance over his shoulder to check that he was alone. "Remember that bus line I was investigating?"

"Yeah."

"They asked me about it… while they were… they asked me where the line was. They thought I knew something."

Grantaire cursed again, a car honking as he walked further down whatever street he was blending into. "So some guys, who weren't Caza but were pretending to be Caza as a cover, put out a hit on you to find out information you don't know but thought you knew. I'm assuming that means they weren't looking for agent you then?"

"Mike the marine." Mike dug his toes into the sand and twisted his lips to the side. "I'm staying in Graceland for a little longer."

"I figured as much," Grantaire said. "This is a big lead for you. I would have preferred if you hadn't gotten it while being tortured but it makes sense. Do the others know you're making a team?"

"No." Mike casted a worried glance over at the dark house. Bates hadn't left the kitchen light on for him. "I'm telling them tomorrow once I get the official go ahead but… like I said they're different… They can barely look at me half the time and I keep feeling like I need to apologize for something but… I don't know _what _I did and I just… I don't know. Everything's going insane. How am I suppose to lead a team of highly trained agents that saw me as just the rookie the last time I was here?"

A bitter laugh escaped Mike's lips and he shook his head. "I can't even _think _let alone give orders!"

"You do it like you always do," Grantaire said calmly. "It makes senses your confidence is down. But they've worked with you and you're smart. I could see that they saw that when I first moved in. They trust you."

"You didn't see their faces, Grantaire," Mike shook his head. "No, they don't. Not anymore."

Mike's throat tightened with emotion and the realization slammed into his chest that the people that had become something close of family didn't trust him. It made the Enjolras side of him wilt a little but it was devastating for Mike. _Can't do it. Always thinking, wanting to change. Pointless._

Mike let out a shallow shaky breath before the sob in his chest could fall out of him and all he wanted was to be wrapped in Grantaire's arms because Grantaire was certainty, safe.

"I just… I don't know, Grantaire," Mike said muffled by the press of his hand. "I just feel like everything is just whirling around in my head… spinning… I can't keep up with it."

Grantaire didn't say anything for a minute, waiting until he knew that Mike had pulled a few pieces of himself back together.

"Maybe you should call George," he said finally and from all the shit things that had been thrown his way that weekend, he wasn't expecting Grantaire's words to sting as much as they did.

"Sorry," Mike said, fighting to keep the hurt from edging out into his voice and making his tone sharp. "You're busy and it's late. I'll just-"

"Enj, stop." Mike hated when Grantaire used that tone of voice. It meant that Mike had taken something out of context and let it seep into his insecurities. Usually during those times, when Grantire used that tone, was when Mike couldn't feel further apart from Enjolras. When the words that were thrown at him could be shaped into a tool and he could use them for his own plan of attack, that's when he felt in control. Not now.

His body was exhausted, he wanted nothing more than to be curled around Grantaire, but his mind was reeling. The bus lines, his housemates, Not-Caza hit men, it was all together too much. He pressed a fist against the beating headache behind his eyes, hating himself for feeling so raw.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"I didn't mean it like that," Grantaire said softly.

"I know." He nodded even though Grantaire couldn't see it.

"You know I'll always listen when you need me too," Grantaire continued. "It's just… this is something you used to talk to Combeferre about."

"I know."

"He was the one that talked to you, understood you when you didn't understand yourself."

"I know," he repeated. "It's just before… Enjolras and Ferre could talk about… _everything_. I can't do that now."

The shadow of Graceland burned Mike's back and he fought down a shiver at the memory of his nightmare.

"Enjolras and Combeferre talked about whatever they wanted. That includes however _little or as much_ as they wanted. There wasn't a maximum requirement and George isn't asking for that."

Mike pressed his eyes shut and hung his head, allowing the sound of Grantaire's breathing and the waves sooth some of the anxiety clawing at his chest.

"It was too late for Grantaire and Enjolras so we get to make our own rules but… What Enjolras and Combeferre had ran deep. He was the one who could get you back on track."

Mike had felt it when he had first gone to meet George, in a small café in New York when the professor had visited the states for a lecture series. The strong _want _to just be near someone that gave the term codependency a whole other meaning had been overstimulating. He had shied away from the craving like a coward and when Grantaire had asked him, rightfully confused by Mike's withdrawal, all Mike had been able to do was shrug and muttered about how it hadn't been what he had been expecting.

Truthfully, and Mike was too exhausted to pretend anything but, when George had shook his hand that fateful day in a Starbucks of all places, he had looked at Mike like he was the world. The devotion had been something Enjolras hadn't been fully able to appreciate, too focused on the cause, and when he had it was too late. All the feelings of recognition and the overpowering urge to never let his friends go again had mixed with memories of gunpowder and watching Combeferre and Courfeyrac falling together, dead. Needing people had been familiar for Enjolras. His friends had been his family. Not for Mike. It had been too much, way too much. He didn't deserve the love and the loyalty. Enjolras had been great and Mike was a stark contrast to the fearless leader that was braver than most men that had lived. Mike couldn't give Enjolras to George.

"He's not expecting anything from you," Grantaire said as if reading his mind. Mike didn't say anything, worrying at his lip from between his teeth. "I'm not saying that you have tell him everything and I'll support you either way, you know that, but maybe this is what you need."

"You're right," he said finally. Grantaire hummed a response and the soft honk in the background was followed by the start of an engine. Grantaire must have reached his car. Mike felt a small guilt part of him wince. He had been distracting Grantaire while he had been making a get away. He was working and Mike was trying not to cry in the sand.

"I'll be there when you wake up in the morning." R promised and the tension that had pulled at Mike's shoulders eased. He didn't even need to ask to know that he meant Graceland and the prospect of having Grantaire at his side made the oncoming stress seem a little less daunting. Glancing over to the ocean where the sky was only just stretching a long pink line along the horizon, Mike frowned.

"It is the morning."

"I'll be there," Grantaire said anyway. "I love you."

"Love you, too." And God he did. He'd never felt the warmth in his chest that fluttered like a bunch of butterflies before Grantaire but he knew that in a world where everything was uncertain, that feeling was genuine.

"See you in a few hours." Mike whispered a goodbye and ended the call with steadier hands than earlier.

Mike wasn't used to relying on people. But then he had met Grantaire. It had been a fight at first but it felt _right_. Combeferre, George, had been the same. And he wanted it again, felt his skin crawl with need.

Mike toyed with his phone for a while, spinning it in his hands and beating out a pattern with his fingertips. He sent a glance over his shoulder at the still sleeping skeleton of his old home, the beach house intimidatingly still and staring back at him. Pressing his lips into a firm line, he hunched back over his phone searched his contacts before he could lose his nerve.

Holding the phone to his ear, Mike rocked onto his knees and back before he curled his legs close to his chest.

_Ring._

_Ring._

_Ring._

"Mike?" The soft tilt of George's English accent made the concern sound so much like Combeferre that Mike's inner Enjolras sob.

"Hey," he said, surprising himself with a smile. "Am I interrupting anything?"

"Not at all," George said still sounding worried. "Is everything alright?"

Mike ran a hand through his hair, feeling the fullness of his blond locks beneath his fingers. With his other arm still curled around his legs he trailed his hand to rest over the metaphorical weight on his neck, mindful of the bruises that were still hot and sore to the touch. Sighing, he looked out at the ocean again and pressed his phone closer to his ear.

"Can we talk?"


End file.
